


Unwanted Homecoming (Whumptober 2020 Day 1)

by Jadelyn



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Can be read as either gen or shippy, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, No beta we die like stregobor should have, Rescue, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26792620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: It was dark, and Jaskier’s head was fucking pounding.It was dark, his head was pounding, and when he tried to move, just to grasp his aching skull, he learned that his wrists were shackled to the wall behind him.Well, wasn’t this day just getting better and fucking better?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953790
Comments: 7
Kudos: 219





	Unwanted Homecoming (Whumptober 2020 Day 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: LET'S HANG OUT SOMETIME  
> Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

It was dark.

It was dark, and Jaskier’s head was fucking pounding.

It was dark, his head was pounding, and when he tried to move, just to grasp his aching skull, he learned that his wrists were shackled to the wall behind him.

Well, wasn’t this day just getting better and fucking better?

On top of all that, there was a familiar scent in the air, but he couldn’t quite place it except that it left him unsettled and afraid. Well. More unsettled and afraid, even, than waking shackled alone in the dark with a throbbing headache had already done.

It was to be a day of discoveries, it seemed. When he tried to call out to see if there was anyone nearby who might answer him he learned that he’d been unconscious long enough to be terribly dehydrated, leaving him only able to sort of awkwardly croak into the uncaring blackness.

After that, it took all of approximately two minutes for boredom to set in, even over the fear. Marvelous thing, his mind, Jaskier thought with bitter amusement. Abducted and waking alone and bound, and he still managed to get bored almost immediately.

In all fairness, it was boring sitting alone in the dark waiting for someone to come do something.

Couldn’t wet his lips enough to whistle. Couldn’t moisten his throat enough to sing. Nobody to chatter to or be chattered at by. No light, so nothing to look at. What, pray tell, was a bard supposed to do in such conditions?

Wait and be bored, apparently.

And of course, boredom makes it very difficult to gauge the passing of time, so it might have been minutes, hours, or even days later when there was the muffled thud of footsteps, the creaking of under-used hinges, and a ray of lamplight stabbed him in the eyes, amplifying the headache tenfold.

He still cheered for it, or croaked excitedly at it. Something was happening! Even if that something was to be his death, that would still be better than wasting away in the very boring...dungeon, apparently, as he cracked an eye open and looked around. Not a small cell, but a fairly large room. And that unsettling fucking smell was getting stronger as the door opened and a man strode in.

“Oh,” Jaskier tried to say bitterly, "It's you."

It did explain the scent. And the way it had set him on edge even without recognizing it.

The words came out a sort of squawk, not particularly intelligible. Unfortunately, the man now approaching him had plenty of practice in anticipating and interpreting Jaskier's defiance.

"Hello, Julian," his father said.

Jaskier glared up at the bastard's smug countenance and made a rude gesture with one shackled hand.

His father tsk'd at him. "Now, Julian, is that any way to behave in front of your father? If you don't behave, I have no incentive to see to your care, after all. No reason to waste, for example, perfectly good water on someone who's not going to appreciate it."

Oh, that smarmy, smug shitheel. Jaskier knew his role in this game, though, and decided it was worth playing along to at least get some water so he could speak. No point in telling his awful father off if he couldn't do more than grunt at him. He stopped making the gesture and leaned his head back against the wall with a sigh.

"That's better," Aleksandr Pankratz said, and gestured to someone behind him. A young servant girl came forward and held a cup of water to Jaskier's lips with shaking hands, which didn't exactly make it easier to drink from.

Not that he blamed the poor girl. His father had a nasty habit of terrorizing the household staff (and everyone else he could exert the tiniest bit of power over, and as an Earl, that was an unfortunately long list). So Jaskier just tried to be grateful for the water that managed to make it into his mouth and ignore the splashes that dripped down his chin and dampened his shirt.

When the cup was empty, the girl bobbed a nervous curtsey at the senior Pankratz and all but ran for the door and the stairs back up to the manor. Jaskier tried not to be jealous of her ability to flee. He failed.

But at least his voice was restored! He cleared his throat to test it, then grinned up at his father.

"Why, thank you ever so very much, father dearest," Jaskier said, each syllable dripping with false honey. "And may I say how very kind you are, the absolute soul of generosity, the patron deity of hospitality, for these luxurious accommodations you've so thoughtfully provided for me." He rattled his chains a little for dramatic effect.

He'd spent fifteen years antagonizing Aleksandr Pankratz before he escaped to Oxenfurt. He had developed, over those years, a fine sense for just how far he could push without provoking outright violence.

That confidence in his ability shattered as his father casually backhanded him across the face. Ears ringing, lip split and tasting blood, Jaskier sat stunned for a long moment before finally forcing his head up to look at his father again.

The Earl was smiling down at him, smug and satisfied as a cat in a creamery. The smug smile widened into an outright grin as he enjoyed whatever look was on Jaskier’s face at the moment.

“You shouldn’t be so surprised, Julian,” he said, sounding about as affected as though he were discussing the unseasonably warm weather at a society brunch. “I tried a soft hand, and it got me disobedience and you running off to disgrace yourself and our family by association.” His lip curled. “I mean, a traveling bard was bad enough, but a traveling bard whose only claim to fame is his attachment to a _witcher?_ ” Aleksandr shuddered dramatically.

“A soft hand?” Jaskier echoed incredulously, his newfound caution vanishing. “I’m sorry, what part of keeping me practically a prisoner for fifteen years and sending me to a ‘school’ that quite literally attempted to beat proper behavior into me was ‘soft’ to you?”

The smile vanished from his father’s face with terrifying suddenness. Jaskier found himself face to face with a cold, implacable jailor who bore only a passing resemblance even to the bastard arsehole of a father he’d sought so hard to escape. Jaskier pressed himself back into the wall, his heart dropping into his stomach at the threat. His father leaned closer.

“I am going to break you to my will like a fractious colt this time, Julian,” his father said, eyes burning through him.

Swallowing hard and summoning his remaining courage, Jaskier decided to see if he could talk his father around, rather than annoying him into letting him go. “Logically speaking,” he said, “if that were going to work, don’t you think it would have worked the first time? You tried my whole childhood to ‘break’ me, as you so charmingly put it. I’m still here. It didn’t work. What makes you think this time would be any different?”

The smile was back, and ten times worse. “Because this time, Julian,” Aleksandr explained, “you won’t suffer the consequences of your defiance alone.” He went to the dungeon door and pounded on it, then returned to stand before Jaskier as he waited for...whatever he’d summoned.

The door creaked open. Jaskier craned his neck to see around his father’s legs -

All the blood left his face at once. He felt cold and sick, and was dimly aware that he was shaking. And yet he couldn’t look away as a pair of his father’s guards hauled an all-too-familiar figure into the dungeon and shoved him to his knees.

“You see, Julian,” his father said, “some called you the witcher’s bard, and some called you the witcher’s whore, but everyone was in agreement that whether you were letting him fuck you or not, you were quite devoted to him either way. So I let it be known that we’d taken you, and where we’d brought you, and I set up a little ambush. I thought you might be a bit more open to accepting your...reeducation, if offered a particular sort of encouragement.”

“No,” Jaskier whispered. He yanked against his chains as his father stepped back, still giving him that horrifying smile. “Father, no.” Aleksandr turned away, toward where Geralt knelt, armor and swords already stripped away, hands bound behind him. “Lord Pankratz,” Jaskier hated addressing his father formally like that, but perhaps if he could show he was willing to give his father what he wanted then he might not -

The crack of Aleksandr’s knee against Geralt’s face echoed on the stone walls, followed by a pained grunt and the sound of Geralt falling to the floor.

“Stop, please!” This couldn’t be happening. His father could beat Jaskier half to death if he wanted, but Geralt had nothing to do with this. It wasn’t his fault. He shouldn’t suffer for Jaskier’s stubbornness and refusal to bend to the requirements of his station. Jaskier had thought nothing could compel him to give in to his father on this, but now he knew better. “Please,” he repeated, hopeless, helpless.

His father followed it up with a hard kick to the chest. Jaskier prayed that the sharp sound he heard wasn’t Geralt’s ribs actually breaking.

But his father paused then, coming back to loom over Jaskier. “I think perhaps you’re beginning to understand. Aren’t you, Julian?”

Jaskier couldn’t bear to meet his gaze, looking past him to where Geralt lay huddled on the flagstones, eyes blurred by tears.

Only…maybe it was the tears, or maybe the dim and flickering torchlight playing tricks on him. But he could have sworn, for a moment, that Geralt had looked directly at him - and winked.

“Julian?” There was a warning tone in his father’s voice. Fearing his wrath might be about to descend upon the witcher again, Jaskier snapped his attention back to the Earl’s face.

“Yes, sir,” he said quickly. “Yes, I understand, Father. I’m sure we can work things out - just, just let Geralt go please. This is nothing to do with him.”

Aleksandr raised an eyebrow. “I see the gossips were right. You are absolutely gone on the mutant, aren’t you?”

Jaskier bared his teeth and snarled at the insult, only realizing after he’d done it what a mistake he’d just made.

His father sighed. “Such a promising start, and then you backslide immediately. I think perhaps I’ll need to hold onto the mutant for a while, just as insurance for your continued good behavior, you understand. Until I’m convinced you’re properly reintegrated into the family, at least.”

Jaskier let his eyes fall shut, the shame of defeat burning through his veins. “But you won’t hurt him anymore?” he asked, hating how weak his voice sounded. “If I give you what you want?”

His father didn’t answer. Instead, Jaskier heard a sudden clatter and a couple of thuds, followed by silence.

He opened his eyes.

Aleksandr Pankratz’s looming abilities had nothing on the looming presence of one cheerfully pissed-off Geralt of Rivia. Who was not, in fact, lying bound on the floor any longer. The guards had obligingly taken over that role in their little tableau so that Geralt could instead stand menacingly over Jaskier’s father, arms folded and teeth bared in something that might be called a smile, if you’d never seen someone smile before.

“H...how?” Aleksandr stammered, trying and failing to stand his ground before the angry witcher. He shuffled half a step backward.

“Your guards,” Geralt said conversationally, “are not nearly as smart, as thorough at checking for hidden weapons, or as good at tying knots as you think they are. And you,” he added, “are not nearly as strong as you think you are. Did you really think a knee to the face and one kick to the ribs was enough to incapacitate a mutant?” The last word dripped derision as Geralt flung it back in the Earl’s stupid, frightened face.

Jaskier watched, not bothering to contain his glee, as his father shuffled back a little more. “I…” the elder Pankratz said, unhelpfully, “I, uh...I…”

Geralt rolled his eyes and turned to fix Jaskier with that piercing golden gaze. “Jaskier,” he said, and Jaskier could have melted at the sound of his name in that deep growling voice. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said airily, waving a hand. The effect was only slightly undercut by the rattle of chains when he moved. Jaskier slanted an irritated look at them. “Well,” he temporized, “mostly fine, anyway. I’ll be fine as soon as I’m out of these.”

Geralt closed the short distance the Earl had managed to put between them in a single step. “Keys.”

For as terribly as this day had begun, Jaskier thought as he watched his father’s hands shake enough to jingle the keys on the ring when he produced it and offered it to Geralt, it was actually turning out quite delightfully.


End file.
